


(Fall) Before the Throne of Grace

by Dragonwithatale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sam Winchester, Canon divergent off of 7.01, Captivity, Come as Lube, Dean Winchester Whump, Degradation, Face-Fucking, Forced Nudity, Forced to Watch, Hallucinations, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, I broke Sam again, M/M, Magical Cockring, Multi, Orgasm Delay, Painful Sex, Rape, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester Whump, Sexual Coercion, Sloppy Seconds, Soulfisting (Supernatural), Spit As Lube, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Dean Winchester, bargaining gone wrong, blowjobs of dubious consent, emotional blackmail, forced to rape someone else, hurt/not enough fucking comfort, if any of you are surprised by this 1) hello new person 2) you owe me a cookie, it grew plot when i wasn't looking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27504091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonwithatale/pseuds/Dragonwithatale
Summary: Alternate take on 7.01.  Castiel is a jealous and angry god. Dean is an idiot who thinks he can appease said god with sex. He’s right and very tragically wrong all at once.It’d be a lot easier to handle if Sam’s life wasn’t on the line.Prompt: Exploitation of power to punish or toy with the Winchesters, specifically how much it would hurt Sam or Dean to see the other suffer or to have to hurt the other themselves.  Could be Godstiel "disciplining" them.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	(Fall) Before the Throne of Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlindSwandive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/gifts).



> This ran away from me a lot. [AnOddSock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/profile) and [OutoftheAshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outoftheashes/profile) have basically sat on me and fed me ideas while my brain turned into adhd pudding. If you enjoy this, please go give them some love -- chances are you'll enjoy what they write too.

“I have no family,” Castiel tells Dean flatly, and then Sam stabs Cas in the back (irony, thy name is Winchester) and things go blindingly bright. Dean shields his face from the glow; when he can see again, things are quite different. Fresh cut grass and sunshine flood his senses, the garden he’s suddenly found himself in bright and too-alive after the eclipse-dark basement. Castiel looks at him for a second, unreadably cold and in this instant utterly inhuman — he never was, and never will be, but the mask is gone and what’s left is _wrong_ — before turning to Sam. All he does is look, and Sam takes a shaky step backward, head jerking back and forth and eyes not focusing on anything and then he starts _screaming_. Like he’s being gutted alive while Dean watches. He crumples forward to the ground, clutching at his head and sobbing painfully into the dirt. Dean takes a step forward and collides with air.

“Cas please, he didn’t mean to.” There’s panic in Dean’s voice but he can’t really help it. Castiel is just watching like it doesn’t matter.

“Didn’t mean to stab me in the back?” There’s fury underneath that coolness and Dean is on thin ice.

“Look,” Dean tries cautiously, heart in his mouth. “You won, okay. You’re—“

“I am God.” Castiel reaches back and pulls the angel blade free from his own flesh. He stares a moment at the bloodless blade before vanishing it. “A better one than my father. Heaven’s throne has been abandoned for too long.”

“You’re God. Okay.” Well this is going splendidly. “You don’t need to… Just let us go, okay? Let me take Sam and leave, and I swear we won’t get in your way.” There’s no reaction. “This isn’t what you wanted. You promised you’d fix him, remember? After you won, you said things would go back to normal. You don’t have to—” _torture my brother,_ the words catch in Dean’s throat.

“How very like you,” Castiel finally looks at Dean, and Dean flinches away from the storm there. “You betray me, try to manipulate me out of fear while professing you care, and as soon as Sam is hurt you abandon all pretense of caring for me, your Lord and _God_.”

“Cas—“

“On your knees, you pathetic little ant. You do not stand before me.” Dean holds his hands up and sinks to his knees. “Better. Maybe you can be taught.”

“What do you want, Cas?” The words are quiet and angry, and bitter because damnit this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this, not because Cas thought he was alone. And somehow Dean had still assumed, like a fucking moron, that any consequences would land on his own head, not on Sam’s. “What do I need to do?”

Castiel huffs, a bitter chuckle. “So ready to sell your soul again, for him.” Dean can’t help but flinch at that barb, but he straightens and meets Cas’ gaze because yeah, actually. It’s _Sam_. “I haven’t touched him, Dean. I didn’t have to, not with you to push him out of safety.” Sam whimpers in counterpoint, and Cas tilts his head in detached curiosity. “Honestly I’m surprised he was able to make it here.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean grits out.

“I left him a dream to live in, when I took down the wall. One last buffer between sanity,” Cas nods at Sam, “and this.”

“Then _fix it._ ”

“I’ve done enough for you. He won’t die here. He can’t.”

“What?” Dean stares at him in horror, filled to the brim with memories of what can be done to someone when death isn’t an option. Or when it isn’t allowed to be the end, when breath is forced back into a broken body. Hell has no end of horrors and it’s impossible for Dean not to hear the threat, not to imagine what’s going to happen to them both.

There’s nothing behind Castiel’s eyes but the weight of that gaze is impossible to escape, and Dean can’t breathe. “Say thank you, Dean.”

“Please, I’ll…” the words die in Dean’s throat as Castiel’s expression flickers to rage — entire worlds will die burning in agony before that anger cools. “Thank you. Castiel.”

“You’ll find I am a merciful God, Dean. All I require from you — all I have ever required — is your love and faith and obedience.” Castiel snaps his fingers and Sam goes limp. “Don’t think disobedience, or _betrayal_ ,” and here Castiel snarls, “will be left unpunished. I allowed a great deal when we were friends, Dean. Pets and playthings have much less grace and will learn their place.”

Dean chokes out another “thank you, Castiel” before the angel-turned-deity vanishes, leaving the brothers alone.

* * *

It takes time for Sam to come to. Longer until he recognizes who Dean is, and Dean is pretty sure he’ll never get over the look on Sam’s face when he first wakes up. His first panicked word was “Lucifer”, so that’s a fantastic sign.

There’s a greenhouse nearby, fairly large and flush with living plants, long-leaf tropical shrubs and trees and flowers, orchids and blooming cacti, soft mosses and dangling vines. It’s beautiful, and humid, and devoid of weapons. It takes the better part of an hour to move Sam from the lawn where they arrived into the building; Sam stumbles and jumps at everything, leaning into Dean for support and nearly toppling them both, then trying to run away. Every instinct Dean has is telling him to pray to Cas and beg for help, because somehow his brain hasn’t quite caught on yet that they aren’t friends anymore and God, Sam needs help so badly. But this time Cas won’t come when Dean calls.

This time Cas might actually want Sam to suffer. Penance for sins committed, or maybe just because Dean managed to piss Cas off.

Day falls naturally to dusk here, wherever here actually is, light creeping from clear gold to amber to a deep seeping red that feels too much like a warning, like Castiel painted the sky with unbridled wrath so Dean would remember he’s in trouble (not like he can forget that at the moment). It’d be an understatement to say that Dean is unsettled by the day so far.

He expects the night to be worse, but the hours of darkness pass in fitful naps and eerie silence. There’s not even any crickets. Or frogs. None of the normal night time choir, no city sounds far in the distance, not a damn thing. They might be the only two living things in fifty miles, and Dean may be a little concerned about a possible lack of food in their future.

Sam is quiet, come morning. Doesn’t want to talk about it, or about the odd way he’s behaving. He accepts Dean’s summary of the previous day’s events way too fucking calmly. “Cas is God now” gets a frown and a nod, the lack of wildlife in their surroundings gets a “I’m not hungry anyways” (how enthusiastic is Dean allowed to get over four depressing words? It’s been a shitty ~~day week~~ year, he’ll take it). “There’s no wall in your head anymore and Cas is pissed about everything” gets a tragic lack of a reaction.

“Sam what the hell,” Dean finally snaps.

“What?” He doesn’t even look up from where he’s slouched against the wall, staring down at his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

Sam gives a dry, mirthless chuckle and says, “What isn’t?”

And that’s it. He won’t answer in more than a few words, he won’t look at Dean, he… he just sits there like a puppet with its strings burnt away. Watching airy nothing and flinching at unreality and too tired to care.

Well screw that. There has to be _something_ they can do. Some kind of way out of here. There’s less hope and more desperation in Dean’s spirit but he’s not broken yet. Not by a long shot. He’s broken out of Heaven and Hell, faced down demons and demigods and archangels and Death himself (the part where he was terrified of Death and didn’t actually win most of these encounters is, of course, not something he thinks about here.) Step one to fixing this is exploring their new prison.

It’s… a garden. Manicured lawns, flowerbeds, artistically shaped trees, quiet ponds filled with lotus blooms, babbling fountains and brooks. It’s beautiful, and too-perfect. No weeds, no plants out of place, no cranky gardener yelling for Dean to get off of the lawn, no mosquitos, no birds. No squirrels. There is nothing alive and nothing out of place and Dean grows more and more uneasy the further he explores.

The gardens belong to a massive sandstone house that Dean can’t get into; iron bound oak doors taller than his head stand firmly locked, the windows are pitch black and shatterproof, and the longer he stands in the shadow of the building the more uneasy he feels. He’s not meant to go inside. There’s nothing else that offers decent shelter on the grounds — benches covered by dripping wisteria and gazebos twined with clematis and rose, dozens of nooks and crannies that would be perfect for a tryst if you’re into plants, but nowhere to get out of the rain.

The boundaries are easy to find. The garden is massive, but there’s hedges and shrubbery that discourage further exploring. Not that Dean is really into the “following the rules” thing; he pushes through with some muffled curses. It’s wrong, outside that line. Order gives way to decay and chaos, brambles and vines and leaves that cut and slice. He’s barely a few yards in when _wrong_ becomes _actively murderous_. Something reaches out and grabs at him, and if there’s one thing he’s learned from porn it’s that you don’t let the tentacle plants get ahold of you. He jerks backwards and falls back into friendlier brambles, and ends up watching his shoe be torn apart by an overzealous vine with inch long thorns.

Honestly Dean’s never wanted to commit herbicide so much in his life.

Deicide is also on the table.

A month ago Dean would have sworn they could fix this. Cas had been stubborn about his choices, so sure as he burned every bridge that he was doing the right thing, but he’d kept reaching out to the brothers. And now… it’s like Sam and the demon blood all over again. Something in the power Cas took in has changed him, but how do you get someone to understand that their head isn’t right? And how do you kill a God when they control everything? Everything they have in this garden is there because Castiel gave it to them, everything that’s missing is because he took it. Every weapon, every opportunity. Even the fact that they’re together instead of separated… it’s all by design.

Which really makes the tentacle plants weird.

How much porn did Castiel watch on his own?

Dean’s musings are interrupted by a distant shout. He jerks around towards the source and then he’s pushing through the tangle, heedless of the cuts he’s inflicting on himself, running as soon as he hits the lawn because that’s Sam and he’s in trouble. The flowerbeds may be trampled in the process, Dean doesn’t notice except to make sure he won’t twist his ankle as he heads to the greenhouse.

The temperature drops when Dean hits the greenhouse entrance, which makes him stumble. A layer of mist hides the plants and cacti more than a few steps beyond the door and muffles all sound, even Dean’s footsteps. A lifetime of experience hunting is screaming that something powerful is angry, but Sam is somewhere deeper in.

A soft noise breaks the silence, something Dean can’t identify but it fills him with a quiet dread. He rounds the final corner; Castiel has returned, it seems. Dean doesn’t want to process what he’s seeing — he steps forward ready to swing, moving in a frozen rage, and goes flying backward into a pile of pottery and cacti. The breath leaves his body and reality sets in, one cut and scrape and detail at a time.

Castiel’s hand wrapped around Sam’s throat, holding him against the frosted glass of the wall.

Sam’s face twisted and flushed with humiliation.

No real space between them. Sam’s shirt rucked up and his jeans loose around his thighs. Blatant hunger as Castiel bites at Sam’s lips and his hand moves between their bodies.

That soft noise again.

Sam crying.

“Stop.” Dean’s voice is even, flat. He pushes himself out of the dirt and plant material, fingers wrapping around a shard of pottery. “Get your hands off of him, Cas.”

“Not now, Dean,” Castiel says absently. Sam looks at Dean in horror and twists away, only for Castiel to slam him back against the wall by the throat, closing the non-extant gap between them to pin him in place. He moves lazily once Sam stills, riding against Sam’s thigh. Dean is going to kill him. “Relax, Sam. I know you can be good for me.”

Broken clay tears roughly through Dean’s palm and he sketches the ward to banish an angel on the stone floor. “I said,” he slams his bloody hand against it and the world whites out, “let him _go_.”

Castiel is still standing there when the light fades, holding Sam against the wall and thrusting against him. It’s like he didn’t even _notice_. Dean grabs the shard again, it’s the only weapon he has, and charges forward to attack the angel violating his brother.

“Castiel, I swear to God—“

A wave of force slams into Dean, and this time it doesn’t stop. He’s pinned against the glass like a butterfly about to breathe his last, and Castiel finally looks at him.

“I _am_ God.” Actual thunder splits the air at Castiel’s proclamation, and Dean flinches. “And you will _wait your turn_.” And like that, he’s dismissed from Castiel’s mind. He turns back to Sam and starts kissing along his jaw, biting gently as he goes, and Dean can see the moment Sam checks out and goes limp. Castiel makes a pleased noise.

“You dick, you’re _hurting him_.”

Castiel sighs, kisses Sam one more time, and lets him go. Sam slides down to his knees as Castiel turns and stalks over to where Dean is hanging; hair standing on end like a current lives under his skin, blue eyes blank and not even a crack in the stone of his expression, the only thing human about Castiel is the rumpled and half undone state of his clothing, and Dean remembers he should be terrified. The adrenaline racing through his veins screams at him to run and he can barely flinch against the weight of Castiel’s will as the deity closes in on him. Dean glares his defiance, certain as Castiel brings his hand up that this is the end and just as certain that he’s going to find a way to make Cas pay. He’s not expecting for Cas to kiss him, hand fisting in Dean’s hair. It’s angry and forceful, full of teeth and hunger and domination.

Enough of his common sense comes back online that Dean relaxes into it, letting Castiel in. Generally speaking, saying no to a god doesn’t end well. Side effects include death, dying, pain, and oh yeah death. But none of that happens next. Castiel presses against him, leaning into the kiss and making Dean very aware of the hot line of his erection. But he doesn’t grind or thrust. He pulls back and stands a breath away, eyes closed.

When Dean opens his mouth to question it, to bargain with Castiel, no sound comes out. Not even a whimper.

“I told you to wait.” Rage deeper than the ocean stares back at Dean, the blank mask cracked and gone. “I know you understand how to follow orders. I’ve broken you to it before and I will do it again, _righteous man._ You do not get to say no.” The grip on his hair tightens painfully, and Dean can’t make a sound. “You do not get to rebel. You do not get to put _him_ in front of me.”

Sam hasn’t run away, and that may honestly scare Dean more than anything else so far. He’s still on his knees, head bowed. It’s… wrong. Sam is the one who never stops fighting, who pushes and punches and screams at the world to make sense. He doesn’t give in, not to Hell and not to Heaven, not to the monsters in the dark and not even to family. He’s always sure of himself, even when he’s plainly not in the right. It’s one of the things Dean can always count on.

He looks broken.

Castiel makes a noise of disgust and lets Dean go. And then he’s gone, filling the air with the sound of wings.

The bone deep chill lingers, a biting hoarfrost that has killed all the plants nearby. But Dean knows as he crouches down next to Sam that isn’t why his brother is shivering. He moves too fast, his need to touch Sam and make sure he’s okay overriding common sense, and sure enough Sam flinches back against the wall.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles. His eyes aren’t focusing and he doesn’t seem to notice the tears still falling down his face. “I’ll be good.”

 _Sam_. Dean’s mouth forms the shape but nothing comes out. He reaches out to cradle Sam’s face, brushing the tears away. _Sam come back._

 _“Ol… zir g noco, enay._ ” The words are Enochian, soft and stumbling like Sam learned them a long time ago. Dean leans his head against Sam’s and furiously blinks back tears of his own.

_I’ll get us home, Sam. I promise. I’ll fix this._

* * *

The silence is overwhelming but not unending. God if only it were. Dean makes small noises as he goes about his days here, one after another turning into weeks — the shuffling of socked feet on dirt, the brush of clothes against plants, the clanking of pottery on stone when he fetches water.

Sam screams himself hoarse the first week. Sheer agony mixed with angry shouting for the thin air to leave him be, English mixed with Enochian that Dean knows he never learned on Earth. And in between Sam talks to himself, to Lucifer, to Jessica. To Dean, but never the one standing right in front of him. The one Sam speaks to can help but is just out of reach.

The dark nights are broken by desperate Latin prayers, banishing demons and begging for God to cleanse him and forgive him. Or by Sam raining down unbridled fury with kicks and blows meant to kill.

Sometimes it’s _Cas, are you there?_ filled with so much hope and despair all at once. _Take care of Dean._

_Get me out of here please I’m begging you don’t leave me alone down here._

_Watch over my brother. He doesn’t do well on his own, he never has._

_I’m okay Cas, I’m sorry. I know you can’t help. Don’t feel bad._

Dean dies by inches.

And the silence grows thicker about them.

Five weeks of screaming and silence is all Dean can take.

Sam is suffering and they’re alone. There’s no sign of Castiel. No food is left for them, no comfort; Dean spends his days watching Sam and finding plants that they can stomach from the gardens to fend off the hunger that still exists here, and his nights awake waiting for the screaming to start again, for Sam to wander off and need to be pulled back to safety. For all that they can’t die here, they’re not going to survive like this.

Dean’s anger flickers and fades in the face of his desperation. All his plans of killing Castiel and exacting revenge crumble to dust as slowly he understands. There’s no way out. No one’s coming to save them. There’s no way to fight their way free. Only one choice is left, really.

* * *

It’s obvious where Dean needs to go. Logical, in a horrifying fashion. If the pets are outside in the garden, the master must be in the house.

He kneels in front of the door, head bowed in prayer. _Castiel, please._ The crushed stones make his bones ache, and the sun is relentless as it beats down on him, but Dean holds fast. That first day, Castiel told him what he wanted. Love faith and obedience. He told Sam to be good and let Castiel take what he wanted — be obedient. So Dean waits on his knees and begs silently for the chance to try and be good again.

He can hear Sam in the distance and it hurts to stay in place but he has to see this through. He’ll give Castiel what he wants, and then they can fix this. He has to believe that they can fix this, that he can make Castiel believe he’s sorry for disobeying and for all the choices that led them to this place. That Castiel will forgive them and he’ll be able to help Sam.

Night spreads over the sky like ink in a well, and Dean shivers and shakes. He’s lost feeling in his legs and his hands have gone numb with cold. At some point he passes out, coming too with his face pressed into the gravel and light seeping in from the east. He takes the time to ease the feeling back into his limbs, to drink greedily from a nearby pond and relieve himself, and then he comes back before the doors and kneels again. The sun slowly washes over the building, pooling down onto the stone where he waits.

_Castiel?_

The door creaks open and a chill seeps out. No light shines inside, and every instinct Dean has is screaming that this is a terrible idea and he should go back.

He doesn’t, of course. He gets up, dusts himself off, and goes in.

The darkness parts like a curtain and Dean finds himself in a large space, open with sunlight and warm wood and living greenery and flowers. There’s a dais on the far end of the hall, and a plain white throne where Castiel sits watching. His face is in shadow, unreadable from where Dean stands.

Dean swallows hard and walks across the room to stand and then, as gracefully as he can manage, kneel in front of his former friend. He keeps his eyes low, focusing on the base of the throne and Castiel’s shoes. Black on white. The silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of his own breathing and a faint ringing noise that might be panic or might be angels. Dean can’t tell.

_Cas—_

“If you’ve come to beg on your brother’s behalf, spare me.” Dean shivers at Castiel’s tone. It’s ice and knives and fury.

 _I’m here to apologize._ It’s impossible to keep emotion out of it when your words are a prayer crafted between mind and soul, and Dean winces at the anger and resentment that’s still welling up in him on seeing Castiel again. _I… I fucked up, I get that._

“Do you?”

 _Yes._ His throat works reflexively at what he has to say. _I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t trust you. I didn’t listen._ He looks up slowly and brings his hands to rest on his thighs. Castiel is a statue in front of him but that’s nothing new. He can do this. _I got in the way of what you wanted._

“And what do you think I want?” Castiel asks, soft as velvet over steel.

 _Faith_. Even in the quiet of his own mind it is difficult to force them out. _Obedience_. Dean moves cautiously, heart in his mouth at the danger if Castiel objects to what he’s about to do. He leans forward and hesitantly places his hands on the tops of Castiel’s knees, sliding his thumbs up along the inside of Cas’ thighs; there’s a small inhale of breath, which Dean takes as a good sign. _Love_. He pushes ever so slightly and Castiel spreads his legs wider, wide enough that Dean can shuffle closer and rest his head against one thigh, nuzzling as he does. Like a fucking pet.

_I can be good._

Dean looks up through his lashes and licks his lips, the ones half the men across the country have told him were made for this, leaving them parted ever so slightly in invitation. His skin is heating up, shame at having to do this mixing with adrenaline, but he can pass it off as desire. Desire that Castiel is very evidently feeling; Dean can see the line of his cock slowly filling out inside his slacks.

_If you let me._

Only Castiel’s breathing betrays him. His hands are still on the armrests of the throne, his face is still impassive and unreadable, but Dean can hear the difference. He’s spent weeks listening, after all. One hand glides up to cover Castiel’s cock, and Dean starts squeezing and stroking, encouraging Castiel to full hardness. A low groan meets his efforts, and Castiel slides forward slightly in his seat. Bingo.

_If you show me what you want._

Dean sits up and replaces his hand with his mouth, leaving openmouthed kisses over the fabric. Salt and musk mix with cotton and faint detergent, familiar and new at the same time. He can’t remember the last time a guy stayed passive and let Dean take his time — bathroom of a roadhouse or truck stop parking lot isn’t exactly a place to linger, and most guys have their dick out and a condom on by the time Dean’s knees could hit the floor. Regret washes over him, followed quickly by fury — he can’t push the emotions aside so he uses them, surging forward to undo Castiel’s slacks and pull out his cock and swallow it down so quick that Castiel yelps and tenses. Dean holds for a moment, pressing up with his tongue under the head, and then he hollows his cheeks and starts bobbing. In a different world this could have been enjoyable, something Cas asked for and Dean gave happily. Even if he’d been pushed into it that first day here, he could have handled that — but Castiel tried to rape Sam and then he left. And Dean had to come and beg for the privilege of having thick cock jammed against the back of his throat.

Anything’s worth it, though. For Sam.

Castiel finally moves, fingers weaving through Dean’s hair as he gives another moan and closes his eyes. He’s gentle, more holding onto Dean as he moves than any attempt to change the pattern, but his hands still tug gently with each bob. It sends a pleasant tingle from scalp to toe, and Dean flushes when he realizes he’s responding — the taste of precome on his tongue, the warm heavy weight of Cas in his mouth, the familiar position of being on his knees in front of a partner — the sights and tastes and sounds of arousal build on one another, and warmth pools in his groin.

“You still have no idea what I want, do you?” Castiel muses, moving a hand to wrap around the back of Dean’s neck. When Dean tries to pull back this time Castiel doesn’t let him; the gentle touch turns into steel, holding Dean in place as he starts to panic, pulling him further down until the head of Castiel’s cock pops back into Dean’s throat. He can’t breathe like this, he’s choking and Cas won’t budge even as Dean starts pushing and pummeling at him.

 _Cas! Please, I’m sorry._ For what, exactly, Dean isn’t sure.

“Relax, pet.” Fucking hell. Same thing he told Sam, relax and take it. Dean tries, honest he does, but tears are streaming down his face and his head is swimming from lack of air. His lungs and throat work desperately, he thrashes and pulls and begs as spots form in front of his eyes and reality starts fading away, replaced by bright and dark and static. Finally his hands go limp and his muscles stop responding.

Hands in his hair pulling him up just enough and air rushes in, sweet and bright and euphoric. Dean manages a few breaths before Castiel starts moving him again, fucking into the tight muscle at the back of Dean’s throat. It burns and Dean whimpers voicelessly. “You would do anything for your brother, out of love. You come to me on your knees with resentment in your heart, because you love him too much to see him suffer. You think _sex_ is a replacement for love, boy?” Castiel pulls Dean back far enough that he can look up and meet Cas’ gaze, so just the head of Cas’ cock lies hot and throbbing on his tongue. He doesn’t know the answer, he doesn’t _know_ what Cas wants.

“You want so desperately for me to fix your brother? Fine.” Cas brings one hand to his own cock and begins stroking quickly, just brushing against Dean’s lips up the upstroke. “Then you can play by the rules you’ve set up.” Cas strokes himself one last time and curls forward with a gasp. Hot liquid floods Dean’s mouth, bitter and salt and too much to be able to swallow at once, though he tries. Castiel lets him go as the last few spurts dribble across Dean’s tongue. There’s enough thought left in Dean’s head that he stays put, holding Castiel’s still-hard cock in his mouth.

“Good boy.” Castiel cups his hand along Dean’s cheek and eases Dean back, until his cock slips out to lie against his thigh. His thumb traces over Dean’s lips. “On your feet, Dean.”

Standing is a challenge; his limbs are floppy and his head is still spinning, but he manages it. And then Cas is right there in his space, nuzzling along Dean’s neck with a sign, one hand curling along his hip as the other traces along his stomach. It’s too easy to lean into him, rest his head on Castiel’s shoulder and bring his hands up to steady himself. Castiel slides his hand down to stroke Dean through his jeans. He gasps silently and his knees almost buckle — he’s achingly hard and Castiel is moving feather light, teasing.

“Do you know what you have to do?” Castiel bites at the join of Dean’s neck and shoulder, and Dean shivers and humps forward into Cas’ hand instinctively.

 _What you want._ It’s so hard to think.

“Good.” Castiel moves his hand, rubbing in small circles over the head of Dean’s cock, and somewhere in the middle Dean’s clothes are gone. Fingers wrap around the length of his shaft and stroke from root to tip, spreading leaking precome as they move. “This is your only chance, Dean. Be obedient. If you refuse me…”

Dean shivers and nods.

“You’re going to take this,” Castiel’s fingers squeeze in a ring around Dean’s erection, “And you’re going to go find Sam.” Horror starts eating away at the haze and Dean jerks back. Castiel doesn’t let go, hand squeezing tight enough to make Dean sob. “You offered a substitute for love to _me_. After everything I have done for you. I have bled and _died_ for you, Dean, and you shut me out at every turn.”

_I’m sorry—_

“You are going to fuck your brother, Dean.” Castiel speaks and somewhere those words are etched in stone. “You’re going to give him the same paltry offering you _dared_ to bring to me. And if I am pleased, I’ll fix his shattered mind. Nod if you understand.”

Dean shakes and quakes and finally nods. No second chances, no way out but obedience. But God, _Sam_.

Castiel lets him go and sits back down on his throne. He’s still rumpled, skin sweat slick and with his dick hanging out; achingly human and entirely not. There’s something in his eyes that makes Dean shudder and look away, a deeper hunger that Dean doesn’t want to think about. “Go.”

He goes. The door shuts behind him with a thud.

* * *

Sun-warmed grass underfoot, soft breeze against his skin as he walks across the lawn. Dean has never felt so naked in his life. He can still taste Castiel, feel the places Cas was touching him — there’s a warmth circling around his cock where Cas’ fingers were and the sensation is keeping his erection from fading.

He’s such an idiot. His head is a mix of static and adrenaline, awake and distant all at once. The sun is out, he had sex with Cas, and now he has to rape his brother. Dean doesn’t really have a plan when he walks into the greenhouse. How do you plan raping someone? But Sam isn’t in the greenhouse. Dean searches the building twice, but he’s just not here.

Gold light is fading to amber when Dean finds him in one of the lovers groves, sitting on a lonely stone bench and watching the sun setting. He’s surrounded by roses in shades of orange and white and slashes of scarlet that are too close to blood for Dean to stomach. It’s a peaceful scene.

Dean is covered in filth and sweat, he’s exhausted and sick and his body is still aching for release, cock jutting out obscenely towards his brother. The temptation is there, as he watches Sam, to just walk away. Say no one last time, tell Castiel to fuck himself. The impulse flutters and dies — if Dean could walk away from Sam, he wouldn’t be here.

He’s never thought of his love as kind or beautiful, to be offered openly or without care. It’s a dark and violent thing, like the life he leads it’s best kept to the shadows where it can go unseen and unremarked on. Because there’s no line Dean won’t cross. He’ll rip the living heart out of whatever threatens his family, walk along a knife and die at the end of a gun if it keeps them safe.

And this, too.

The world is quiet as he approaches Sam, broken only by their breathing and the pounding of Dean’s heart. Sam flinches at nothing and makes a broken croaking noise. He shattered his voice again while Dean was gone. He’s on his feet and swinging at thin air before Dean can reach out to touch him, and that simplifies things. Gives Dean a role to play and no illusions about what he’s about to do to Sam. Sam doesn’t even see Dean approaching, but he lashes out as soon as Dean grabs his arm. It connects hard and Dean’s going to have a bruise, but he ignores the pain and twists until he has Sam in an arm bar.

Sam hisses, half angry and half pleading. “Don’t, you promised. I said yes and you promised you’d stop, please.”

 _Just go somewhere else_ , Dean pleads silently as he maneuvers Sam over to the bench. Sam fights every inch of the way, fights to stay on his feet when Dean shoves him facedown, fights to get back up once Dean has him lying on the stone. Dean half-stands half-kneels over him, one knee wedged between Sam’s legs as he twists Sam’s arm until he cries and stops struggling. Dean flattens one hand against Sam’s back to hold him in place and starts pulling at his jeans with the other until they’re mid-thigh.

_God, please don’t remember this._

“Cas.” It’s a whisper, a plea as Dean sucks on his fingers to wet them and starts probing at Sam’s ass. “Make it stop, Cas, please.”

Dean hangs his head and pushes in, one finger and then two. Sam starts sobbing softly, filled with winces and whimpers when Dean moves a little too fast but his body relaxes, letting Dean in easily. He stretches and applies more spit to his fingers and twists and the setting sun flashes in his eyes. Can’t put this off.

Sam shudders when he pulls out, pressing his face against the stone. Hiding. Dean can hear small noises, words choked off by fear, but he doesn’t want to know what Sam’s begging him for now. The only comfort Dean can offer is to get this over and done. More spit in his hand and Dean wraps his hand around his still-aching dick. He has to take a moment to breathe, overwhelmed by sensation and as he slicks himself up, the dying embers of anger. He’s going to get off on this. Castiel hasn’t left him any wiggle room there.

_I’m sorry, Sammy._

Dean repositions himself on the bench, half lying on top of Sam, and gently pushes in. Sam tenses and Dean can hear his breathing speed up, panic layering over the paralysis of fear. It’s still on this side of tight and Dean pants against Sam’s shoulder as he fights to go slow, not hump his way too deep into the blissful warmth of his brother’s body. He starts moving, rolling his hips in smooth long strokes to give Sam time to get used to the motion. The soft sobs start mixing with panting and then Sam presses back into him and Dean’s lost, chasing after the friction and ecstasy waiting just out of reach.

He’s pounding into Sam now, curled over his brother’s body and thrust thrust thrust, grind deep and beg to come.

 _Please_.

Gentle fingers against his face, tilting his head up and blue blue blue eyes meet his like a shock.

“Look at you,” Castiel says softly, pleased. Dean’s still humping against Sam, trying to hold still enough that he doesn’t lose Cas. “Do you want to come, Dean?”

All he can do is nod and bite back a noiseless sob when Castiel takes his hand away. Steps back and watches, clothed in nothing but fading color, hard and dripping and waiting in perfect stillness as Dean drives himself to the edge of infinity.

 _Cas, please_ , he finally begs again. All Castiel does is snap his fingers and Dean is gone, sparking pleasure and throbbing relief echoing through his body as he spills and grinds into Sam. He’s vaguely aware of having slumped forward across Sam, and then of being moved; a burning hand on his shoulder, dick sliding free as Castiel pulls him upright and then leaves him to fall over on the grass, body still vibrating.

The sun is almost fully set, shadows chasing after the shape of the world. Castiel brushes the hair away from Sam’s eyes, crouching next to him with a small smile. He lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder, as if to be comforting, and Dean watches the clothes fade from Sam’s body; he’s left bare on the stone with Cas rubbing his back in small circles.

“Sam.” Castiel hushes when Sam whimpers and tries to hide his face. His touch is gentle as he moves Sam, abandoning the rough stone for the cool damp of the lawn. Gentle kisses and petting as Sam struggles in Castiel’s arms, disoriented, until he relaxes and quiets. From here, Dean can see the mess he made of his brother; come dripping from Sam’s hole, face and stomach and limp cock all scratched up from rubbing back and forth on the bench. There’s a dull ache where his heart used to beat; he’d kill anyone else for hurting Sam like this.

They can’t die here.

“Cas?” It’s a broken whisper, and Dean can’t tell if Sam’s talking to the real Castiel or the one in his head. The one that’s going to come and save him from everything that’s happening.

Castiel’s hand dips lower, stroking across Sam’s stomach, thumb running along the v of Sam’s adonis belt. Dean struggles upright, pushing to hands and knees when his legs still won’t support him. If he has to watch Castiel… the thought dies, taking the last shred of anger with it. Tears threaten his eyes, mercifully blurring what’s happening in front of him, but nothing blocks out the sounds.

Castiel hushing Sam again, then, “Spread your legs for me, Sam.” Skin slick and wet and a pleased groan. Dean drops his head to the ground — he can still taste Cas on his tongue and nausea finally floods over him. God, what has he done.

There’s a ringing noise and Sam screams as light floods the twilit grove, outlining Castiel in pure blue white — Sam’s legs bent up, Cas thrusting quick and deep, supporting himself with one hand and the other arm moving in Sam’s chest to touch his soul. Fixing him. Raping him.

There’s no noise as Dean screams into the dirt, only whistling broken sobs that do nothing to alleviate the nameless emotion he’s drowning in. He wants it to stop. God why won’t it stop, why won’t Sam stop screaming, why is Cas still fucking into Sam, why isn’t this over. There’s no mercy in this, no grace under Castiel’s heaven and at least in hell there was a choice. There was a chance to unmake yourself, to let the agony be relief and bury all the pain of who you are under what you are becoming. Hell offers that mercy, so why can’t Castiel?

It goes on. Until at last the light of Sam’s soul cuts out, and Dean is left in the dark. Castiel makes a pleased sound and the rest (skin on skin, wet and filthy fucking and Dean can’t…) comes to its own end. He does not hear Castiel approaching, too focused on the sound of Sam’s breathing, the quiet hitching noises of stifled sobs. The hand in his hair is a shock, and he flinches but he can’t make himself look up.

“You did well.” Castiel is gentle in this, and Dean hates himself for finding comfort in the soft stroking motion. “It’s your decision if this happens again. Have you learned your lesson, Dean?”

Dean shudders.

_Yes. Castiel._


End file.
